


Playing the Game

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-06
Updated: 2009-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taub knows it isn’t about friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing the Game

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Huge thanks to [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/) , who said many wise and wonderful things, including "fix the ending". The rough edges are mine.
> 
> Remember that the wonder of the dancing bear is not how well it dances, but that it dances at all (it's also probably kind of cruel, but let's not go there). Written for and inspired by the lovely [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/), who [wanted to see this particular bear dance](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/165038.html?thread=3091630#t3091630). Of course, this would be a far more uplifting dedication if I hadn't forced her to beta as well, but that's what you get for throwing out pairings like that. Sorry about that, Chief. Also contains without question the most bizarre excuse for smut ever. Hey, it's Taub. What was I supposed to do? *g*

Taub knows it isn’t about friendship.

Maybe it's about guilt, because he worked beside Kutner for over a year, saw him day after day without ever really seeing him at all. Or maybe it's about remembrance, because he also worked with Amber for a time, and she's gone too, and somehow he owes her. But mostly it's because House is in Mayfield, and now he keeps catching glimpses of Wilson down hallways and through glass panels, looking haggard and lost when he doesn't realize anyone is watching. Chase and Cameron are still on their honeymoon, Foreman and Thirteen are so wrapped up in themselves it's as though nothing else in the world exists, and Cuddy as always has her hands full of hospital and baby. There's simply nobody else left to give a damn, so it looks like it has to be him.

There's nothing more than an expression of mild bewilderment on Wilson's face when he opens the door. With House safely locked away, Taub supposes there's nothing much in the way of news he could bring with him that would be deemed worthy of concern. Instead of speaking, he just smiles, tilts his head slightly, motions with his chin. Wilson lets him in.

Wilson's manner brightens up noticeably in the next few minutes as he acts like he's glad Taub dropped by, offers him an armchair and a drink, but the strain shows in everything he does. Taub barely knows the man outside of a few casual lunches and one non-existent racquetball game and even he can see it.

“So…” Wilson says at last, when they run out of scintillating observations about how summer tends to be the warmer part of the year, “is there… something I can help you with?”

The question is almost funny under the circumstances, but it's also entirely typical. From the little he's seen, Taub's not sure that Wilson actually knows any other way to relate to people.

“Other way around,” Taub corrects. “I was wondering if you wanted to talk about… you know, anything. Since you're always 'too busy' for lunch nowadays,” he adds, just a little acidly. He does the finger quotes without irony.

Wilson studies Taub intently, as though measuring the true depths of his concern. Then he grimaces, and loses his genial air.

“I'm not Kutner,” he says sharply. “Really. You don't have to worry. I wouldn't do that to… people.”

“Right, because Kutner was exactly the kind of inconsiderate bastard who _would_ …” Taub begins, and then stops, because this line of argument is both pointless and painful. “Fine, you're not Kutner. He was less uptight.”

Taub gets up from the armchair then, and plants himself unceremoniously next to Wilson on the longer couch, pulling slightly at his jeans as he sits. Wilson has to shuffle aside to give him room.

“The real bastards always seem to make it through just fine,” Taub says, skating along the edge of the issue. He watches as Wilson tenses again, his hands curling into themselves, and abruptly he decides to change tack. “But that's not why I'm here.”

“It… isn't?” Wilson's surprise feels like the first genuine emotion Taub's seen from him since he got here.

“Frankly, you've been looking terrible lately,” Taub says, cheerful now, expansive. He puts a conspiratorial arm around Wilson's shoulders, and his tone shifts subtly. “I was thinking maybe you could use a little work, do you know what I'm saying? A nice brow lift, maybe some Botox around the eyes.” He lets Wilson go and waves his hands imploringly in his best impression of his crazy Uncle Marty. “Special price, just for you.”

Wilson's initial look of pure astonishment crinkles into laughter despite himself, and Taub works it for all he's worth. He shakes his head disapprovingly. “You're only making it worse.”

The amusement doesn't last long, but when Wilson recovers he seems a little less tense, and Taub counts that as a point for himself.

“Thanks for… I don't know, the offer,” Wilson says, and smiles again, but it disappears as quickly as it came.

“So, _do_ you want to talk about anything?” Taub asks again.

“I don't… really think I do.”

“Okay,” Taub says, defeated. “I'll just sit here, then. Until you hint loudly enough that you've got important things to do.”

And they do, in fact, just sit there, side by side, and it's awkward as hell. Wilson disappears into himself for a time as Taub watches him in silence. Then finally he looks up and meets Taub's eyes, and they begin to talk a little after all, first trading random memories of Kutner and Amber before going on to pass observations on their mutual friends and acquaintances. Most of them, anyway. His wife Rachel is notably absent from the conversation, as is House, but their shadows still loom large in every careful change of subject.

The apartment is initially cool despite the summer heat, but warms slowly as the afternoon wears on and the sun begins to stream in directly through the windows. When Wilson finally does talk about House, about the hallucinations, about the uncertainty that hangs over him, over them, Taub moves to put an arm around his shoulders again. He knows without needing to be told that Wilson's fears for House are somehow all mixed up with those for his own brother, and Taub's gesture is born out of the same instinct. Wilson flinches for a moment, then accepts it. Taub wonders whether Kutner would have accepted in the same way, if Taub had seen in time, had tried.

Then, inevitably, Wilson asks about Rachel and their marriage and while Taub explains that they're getting by, very much in love, thanks for asking, it’s clear that Wilson's been there before. More than once. And he knows all the things that Taub's not telling, doesn't want to tell, and when Wilson just sits there and nods and  _listens_ in his probing, relentless manner, Taub ends up spilling his guts after all. He didn't come here for past and present revelations about affairs and failing marriages and signs of imminent divorce, but it all seems to have been included in the package anyway.

And afterwards he can't remember with certainty who started it, but in retrospect it was probably him, had to have been. He remembers Wilson half-lying against him, back resting comfortably against the side of his ribcage, remembers saying something like “let me” as Wilson tilts his face up and around in inquiry. It's fairly non-committal, as far as kisses go, but Taub holds his breath all the same. Some of Wilson’s features might be showing signs of wear-and-tear, but his lips are still firm, perfect.

Instantly, Wilson pushes himself out of Taub's casual embrace, sits up straight on the couch and actually glares at him. Taub looks back at him calmly, completely unfazed. They both know, or ought to know, that it doesn't mean anything, that none of this is about _them_ at all, only a reflection of the ever-present shadows that drift above and beside and between them, unseeing, uncaring. _Take it or leave it_ , Taub says, without uttering a word, and Wilson hesitates only a moment longer before reaching for him.

There's not even the pretense of affection there; Wilson’s mouth presses against his own in hard, selfish abandon, but that's okay. It's more than okay. The heat in the room is rising by the moment.

They end up in Wilson's bedroom, in what had been Amber-and-Wilson's bedroom, where Wilson hesitates suddenly at the foot of the bed. Taub isn't impressed. House has had an entire bevy of assorted strippers in this apartment, for god's sake. Everyone stood around and watched while Wilson licked his way up another woman's body right there in ex-Amber's ex-living room. And yet somehow the bed has retained its sanctity amidst all the carnal desecration.

Taub's shirt is rumpled and his dick is aching, and he's not going back to the couch. He grabs Wilson's arm, forces him to turn.

“You know she would have wanted to watch,” he says.

It is, apparently, the right thing to say. The uncertain look passes from Wilson's face, and Taub allows himself to sink back onto the bed with a sigh of relief.

Taub knows very little about racquetball, it's true, but he still remembers all the tips Wilson gave him in preparation for their unsuccessful cover story. Dominate center court where you can; but the rules state you must always allow your opponent room for a return shot should the opportunity arise. It's the hips and shoulders that are the key to a good, powerful stroke. Good angles are more important than simply hitting the ball down low. Creating a consistent service rhythm will lull your opponent into a false sense of security. And the most important thing, the thing to remember, is the flick of the wrist upon contact, together with the follow through - used with care and precision, these will inevitably force your opponent into submission. They are all tips that prove surprisingly helpful, and Taub mentally awards himself the game as Wilson moans and spasms against him.

And afterwards there is the same sticky heat, the sweat, the manly embrace, the desperate need for a shower.

When Taub returns from the bathroom, Wilson is curled on his side, looking up at him. Taub gets dressed slowly, checking in the mirror to see that he will look roughly the same getting home as he did arriving here, watching Wilson’s reflection watching him. They exchange a few inconsequential remarks about Taub’s taste in clothing. Now, only when it's far, far too late, does Wilson look guilty.

“I'm sorry,” Wilson says, ostensibly in response to an accusation that he has failed to stock Taub's preferred brand of deodorant, but Taub can tell that Wilson's thinking of Rachel waiting patiently back home, of being yet another wrecking ball in the long, slow disintegration of the Taub marriage. For some reason it irritates him. Wilson should concentrate on his own problems.

“Don't be,” Taub says. “If _House_ finds out he's never going to let either of us forget it.”

It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Wilson quickly turns away from him, rolls over on his other side. Taub reaches down to squeeze his shoulder gently, awkwardly, before he goes, but says nothing more.

After all, it isn't about friendship.

The first shadows of evening are beginning to stretch out on the sidewalk as he walks back to his car. When he opens the door the trapped heat _whooshes_ out to greet him in a frenzied rush, desperate to escape. He settles himself into the seat, punches buttons for the air-conditioning, waits a minute or two for the cooling breeze to do its job. Then he heads for home under a darkening sky, the inane chatter of the radio breaking in and out of his thoughts.

He still loves Rachel, in a bittersweet fashion, loves her warmth and her smile and the way she cares for him. In contrast, the strongest emotion he can summon up for Wilson is a kind of odd, empathic pity. Although at least he’s seen enough now to be reassured that Wilson’s getting by, that he won’t end up like Kutner anytime soon. With a sudden jolt of understanding Taub realizes that in spite of his initial good intentions it is Wilson who has given him exactly what he needed.

Taub feels sorry for him all the same. He's sorry for Wilson the same way he's sorry for himself. For all the people who choose to suffer _this_ world, _this_ reality, despite its never-ending cycles of hope and expectation and disappointment. He feels that in return for continuing to endure, there really ought to be room for the occasional small, private consolation.  
  
In that way, what had happened could hardly be said to be cheating at all.


End file.
